


Harry Potter and the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit

by Novaa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DMAC Squad Harry Potter, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Department of Mysteries, Ensemble Cast, Getting Together, H/D Career Fair 2017, HP:EWE, M/M, Magical Confectionery, Ministry of Magic, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn, Spell Inventor Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novaa/pseuds/Novaa
Summary: Ever since the war, Harry has led a full life. Lots of friends, a loving family, a fulfilling — albeit often ridiculous — career, a great house and an overall relatively easy life, considering, at least after a bit of therapy. So, when Draco Malfoy comes back to London ten years after the war to join the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit, Harry knows that he must be up to something. Only, he doesn't want to have anything to do with it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[9](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LiaSm8GWFLsDD8KUOZmlTSHmhIMyFZzdqYNfB-25Khk/edit).
> 
> Dear Momatu, I hope you will be happy with how this story turned out, and that it will make you laugh as much as I did when I wrote it. Thank you for the prompt!
> 
> Many thanks to BloodyFlammable who put up with me throughout the writing process and beyond, GingerTodgers for her characterisation advice and britpicking and Aibidil for her amazing general betaing, at the last minute to boot. And, of course, all the love to the amazing Drarry Discord — especially Tami and ShiftyLinguini — and the fanfair mods, for their work and patience.

Leaving Auror training is the best thing Harry has ever done. Well, besides flying with dragons that didn’t want to roast him alive during that summer he went off to Romania with Charlie, and, maybe, killing the Noseless Bogey Man.

He joined the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes on a whim just a few months before he completed Auror training, and he’s never looked back. He mostly deals with ridiculous situations while Ron, as a junior Auror, is stuck doing paperwork half the time. Well, Harry has paperwork too, he just can’t be bothered to do any of it. Most of the time, he manages to bribe Padma into doing it, as she is his appointed correspondent at the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee—and she’s very fond of Molly’s cauldron cakes.

The Accidental Magic Reversal Squad also works closely with the Obliviators, and, at first, Harry was horrified to learn he would have to work with Pansy ‘I tried to hand you over to Mouldy Voldy’ Parkinson. But as the two of them were thrown together at least three days a week, Harry and Parkinson eventually made peace. If only to get Padma to keep doing their paperwork for them, and not hex them into oblivion.

Five years back, when Ron and Hermione split up and both moved out so there wouldn't be a fight over who got to stay, he acquired a new flatmate in the form of Parvati Patil. Grimmauld Place hasn’t felt the same without Ron and Hermione, though, especially since the three of them put the place together after the war. Leaving would have felt like a betrayal of Sirius’s legacy, and they had all agreed that Harry couldn’t possibly live in that house without some serious refurbishing. Hermione got things off to a good start when she exploded a whole wall after dear old Walburga shrieked one too many slurs. After that, they reverted to more classic — and explosion-free — decorating methods. Ten years after the war, it is still a quirky old house with some very opinionated furniture, but it is comfortable, lived-in, and most of all it’s  _his_ , and Harry loves it to pieces.

Harry’s life is simple and well-organised. On week nights, he has a quiet evening with Parvati or drinks with his Squad mates, and sometimes, he, Ron and Hermione get sloshed in that Muggle bar they found the morning after the Battle. There is the occasional date on Friday nights, and on Saturdays he hosts gatherings of his extended circle of friends. Sundays, however, are always spent at the Burrow. It’s a good life.

After all, Harry’s had enough trouble for a lifetime.

And what if sometimes he wishes his job was a bit more adventurous? What if he can’t be bothered to care about any of his dates, for lack of a challenge? He isn’t even thirty yet—he has time. Maybe he should be glad of the peace and quiet. Isn’t it what he had always wanted?

All was well.

*

Saturday nights are turning into a serious affair, and Harry is starting to feel the weight of his celibacy as his friends all pair up. How Ron managed to make Padma forget about that Yule ball disaster, Harry doesn’t know, but they do seem to be quite happy. As for Ginny, she and Parkinson have become close friends and she’s now going out with Blaise Zabini, to Harry’s dismay. And since Ron made it fair game to date Harry’s work partners, Hermione apparently thought it a glorious idea to do the same. Parkinson is completely mad for Hermione, and Harry seriously contemplates strangling Parkinson whenever she goes into excruciating detail about their sex life. Only Parvati is sympathetic to his pain, as she hasn’t much free time with her work at the _Daily Prophet._

Still, Harry enjoys those nights, especially since Ron and Hermione have less and less time for him during the week. Ron is starting to have more responsibilities as an Auror, and Hermione has just been promoted to the Committee on Experimental Charms. And he stopped popping in their respective flats unannounced after he walked in on Hermione doing terrible things to Parkinson’s buttocks.

Sometimes it feels like his world has narrowed down to the boundaries of the Ministry, House loyalties forgotten for Department pride, and Harry is happy to at least have Ginny and Parvati in his life. As he nurses a butterbeer on his favourite chair in Grimmauld’s living room, his friends chattering about the latest Ministry regulation and the upcoming Quidditch Ministry-Cup, Harry closes his eyes, somehow finding himself wishing for more.

His train of thought is interrupted by Ron’s laughter. “Come on mate, we all know it’s not your real job.”

Zabini crosses his arms over his chest, visibly put out. “I’ll have you know that the Unit is a proper job, one that takes a lot of dedication, might I add, what with the... Well, the...” He clears his throat. “Exploding bonbons...”

As the room fills with peals of laughter, Zabini’s cheeks colour. “Don’t be nasty, guys,” Ginny intervenes, patting Zabini with a soothing hand. “You all know that the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit is legit. I mean, who would use _that_ as a cover, right?” she manages to get out before collapsing into a fit of laughter.

“I hate you all,” Zabini sulks.

“Moving on,” Parkinson says mercifully. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Draco is back in town.”

A cautious silence fills the room.

Ginny clears her throat. “He’s been gone for what, seven years?”

“Yeah, Theo’s coming back with him.”

“France, wasn’t it?” asks Hermione in a gesture of good faith, though she is obviously uncomfortable. It’s one thing to welcome Parkinson and Zabini into their midst, but Draco Malfoy? That’s another kettle of fish.

Zabini nods. “He’s been commissioned by the Ministry to lead the new branch of the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit. He starts on Monday.”

Another awkward silence. Then, Padma starts to smirk. “And what is it gonna be? The Acid Pops Tracking Squad?”

Zabini rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

And just like that, the room dissolves into laughter once more.

Except for Harry, who’s frowning at his almost empty bottle of butterbeer. As they say, be careful what you wish for.

*

“Hello Potter, you’re looking terrible as always,” Parkinson greets him cheerfully.

Harry smiles sweetly. “And don’t you look stunning with those bags under your eyes.”

“Yes, yes, you are both appalling human beings, now please let’s move on,” Padma intervenes.

Harry shuffles through the list of assignments for the day and grins as he picks up a story about an 8-year-old who charmed a candy floss unicorn into existence. The thing is quite literally shitting rainbows. Parkinson is going to have a field day.

Last week, they faced an army of chocolate-covered marshmallow teddy bears that threatened to take over Tinworth in Cornwall. Victoire and Dominique, Fleur and Bill’s kids, received a bag as a present from their aunt Gabrielle who came to visit. The prospect of eating French confections after so long got them so excited that their accidental magic blew off the charts. Padma came up with a story about a French marketing campaign while Harry chased the little buggers through town, followed by Parkinson who Obliviated anyone who had seen too much. Parkinson ended up on the front page of the Prophet, covered in melted chocolate, courtesy of Parvati. Befriending the press has its perks.

“So, where to, Wonder Boy?” Parkinson asks impatiently.

“Outskirts of London, sweet Queen of Pests,” Harry says. “Brentwood, Essex.”

Padma nods and pulls a parchment pad out of her pocket. “What’s the situation?”

Harry struggles to keep his composure. “Unicorn sightings.”

Parkinson frowns. “We should call the Invisibility Task Force, then. Millicent work there, I can ring her.”

Harry shakes his head, smirking. “Trust me, no need for that.”

Parkinson narrows her eyes at him, but Padma cuts her off before she can try and maim him. “You two will have to argue on our way to Brentwood, we don’t have all day.”

*

Ron pushes open the door of Harry’s office without knocking, a bright smile on his lips. “Heard Parkinson got you this time.”

Harry growls, tugging on the pointy hat he put on the second he got back from Essex. “I will have her skin for this one.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, mate,” Ron says and flops down on the chair opposite Harry’s. “It’s your game, innit?” Harry narrows his eyes at him, clearly not convinced, which only makes Ron grin harder. “Come on, show me.”

Harry huffs, a sulky look about him. “I will do no such thing.”

“And here I thought I was your best mate,” Ron protests, affecting outrage.

“I hate you,” Harry grumbles, but takes the hat off.

After a short shocked silence, Ron’s eyes widen almost comically and he bursts out laughing. Seeing Harry’s petulant look, he tries to gather himself. “I just have one question,” Ron manages to say without giggling too much. “Is your hair edible or does it just look like candy floss?”

Harry throws his hat at Ron’s face.

*

By the end of the day, Harry’s hair has gone back to normal and both Ron and Parkinson have made it onto his Seriously Horrid Irritating Twats list, otherwise known as the shit list. At this point, he’s looking forward to a quiet evening with a glass of firewhisky, and an opportunity to plot his friends’ demises with the precious help of his wicked flatmate.

That’s when the first explosion happens.

One minute later, Harry is out in the hallway, his wand clutched in his hand. He only allows himself to relax when he notices a sea of soap bubbles coming out of the lifts. Surely, no actual harm can come from that. “What happened?” he asks no one, frowning.

“Something went wrong in the new lab,” a witch tells him, and Harry scowls some more. He has a bad feeling about this. He moves past her and down the stairs. On each floor, people are gathered around the lifts, sharing questioning looks, laughing at the bubbles and doing anything but work. Once he reaches the Department of Mysteries — or at least the part of it that is available to the public — Harry looks for Zabini, who, obviously, is hovering next to the lifts.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Zabini tells him, a deep crease between his brows.

Harry shrugs. “When did the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit move to Level 9?”

He rolls his eyes, not bothering to deny how lame the Unspeakables' cover is. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Checking on you, actually,” Harry says. “Is everything all right?”

Zabini sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, let’s just say that Draco’s experiments have been a bit more…  _volatile_ than planned.”

Harry winces. Of course, Draco Malfoy would disturb the whole Ministry on his first day back in England. “I guess you will shut the Acid Pops Tracking Squad down, then?” Harry says, a bit too hopefully judging by Zabini’s dubious look.

“Of course not, Potter,” Zabini snaps. “And that's not what it's called.”

Harry raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry.”

Zabini shakes his head in dismissal. “It’s nothing. Look, we have to close the Department.” He gives him a small smile. “Kindly fuck off now, would you?”

*

Of course, Harry gets assigned to Malfoy’s stupid unnamed branch. “It’s within our jurisdiction,” Gemma Farley, Head of the MAC, said at the emergency meeting addressing the Ministry’s supposed imminent doom due to a soap bubble invasion. “And it’s not up for discussion,” she told Harry when he opened his mouth to argue that, surely, there was someone else — anyone else — who could take his place.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck with that shithead,” he complains that evening to Parvati, who’s busy picking her take-out order for the Indian place a few blocks down. “I managed to avoid him for years! Years! And I hang out with some of his best friends! How do you explain that the second he comes home, I, of all people, get stuck babysitting him?”

Parvati sighs. “I think you’re overreacting.”

Harry straightens up on the sofa, looking indignant. “I am not.”

“You are,” she says with a bored look. “But it’s not surprising, really—you always overreact.”

“To think I considered you a friend,” Harry grumbles as he sinks into the sofa.

“Proving my point,” she deadpans and Harry ponders whether to add her name to the List. “I’m ordering butter chicken. Only decent thing that fake Indian place can do. What do you want?”

“Korma chicken and pakoras, please,” Harry says, and Parvati makes a big deal out of her pretend-retching. Harry laughs. “You disgust me, woman.”

“And you’re a food traitor,” she says derisively but grabs the Muggle phone. Harry smiles as he remembers her initial mistrust of the contraption. Parvati had quickly moved past it though, as she does with most things, including Harry’s mood swings. She glances at him and sighs. “Since you’re having a terrible day, I’ll buy.”

Harry grins and elbows her gently. “If you keep playing your cards right, I might keep you off my list.”

Parvati fondly rolls her eyes at him. “Why do I even try with you?”

*

Friday comes and, besides a new charm that made some flying memos turn murderous, Malfoy hasn’t brought down the Ministry. Yet. And the best part is, Harry managed to avoid seeing his pointy face all week, though he caught a shock of pale blond hair once or twice. He wants to come home and brag about it to Parvati, but it’s Friday and Harry has a blind date tonight.

At five o’clock, Harry decides he’s done enough for the day. He drops by Padma’s office for a quick chat and a cup of tea, and listens to her complain about Ron’s snoring.

At half five, Parkinson stomps in, shoves past Harry without ceremony and drops next to him on Padma’s small sofa. “I miss fucking with people’s minds,” she sighs, sinking into the cushions, her arms crossed sullenly on her chest, and both Harry and Padma stare her down with a tired look.

“Can you please try and pretend to be a normal person?” Padma asks.

Parkinson drapes herself dramatically over Harry’s lap. “Is it so wrong to crave for some meek mind for me to twist a little and then send on their merry way?”

“Yes,” Harry and Padma deadpan.

Parkinson huffs. “You two are no fun. I don’t know why I like you.”

“I do your paperwork,” Padma says.

“I make things interesting,” Harry tries. Parkinson raises a dubious eyebrow at him. “And you’re shagging my best friend.”

She shrugs. “Good point.”

“This assignment is boring, though,” Padma sighs. “Can’t you bribe Malfoy into releasing an army of wild Liquorice Snaps into the streets of London?”

Parkinson perks up. “Now, that’s an idea.”

“Are you two mad?” Harry cries, appalled. “I just want him gone so I can get back to…” He frowns. “So we can get back to our regular cases.”

The two women share a knowing look, and Circe, Harry hates it when they do that.

“Ron tells me you have a hot date tonight?” Padma says and gives him a little smile while Parkinson settles more comfortably on his lap, and Harry knows when he’s given an out.

“Indeed. Blind date. I hope Hermione picked them right, because I can and I will crash her date night if it’s a disaster.”

Harry barely has time to jump off the sofa before Parkinson’s hex burns a hole into the wall.

*

Sitting across from Roger Davies, Harry can’t help but feel like this is a nice revenge on Cho. He’s being petty, he knows, but his inner 15-year-old gets to be resentful. And Roger is as exciting as chopped flobberworms, so it’s not like he gets anything else out of it.

After another speech about the importance of parchment-trails in facilitating internal investigations, Harry excuses himself to the loo. When he comes back, Roger is still terribly boring. Harry bravely survives the first course, and Roger continues his extensive monologue on Ministry policies.

“Aurors can get cocky; they need strict oversight,” Roger says, and Harry tries to smile, but really it just looks like someone jammed a fork into his hand.

He’s starting to consider doing just that when the restaurant’s door bursts open to let in a distressed Ginny, Zabini in tow. “Harry?” she cries, her head snapping in all directions. When she catches sight of him, she brings her hand up to cover her mouth, her eyes shining with tears. Zabini looks grimly at him, and Harry’s blood turns cold.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, a crease of worry settling on his face.

“It’s… Fleur, the pregnancy…” Ginny looks away and burrows her face into Zabini’s neck as he puts a protective arm around her.

Harry grabs his coat and turns sharply towards Roger. “I have to go,” he says solemnly.

“Of course,” Roger splutters, dazed.

Harry shoots him a brooding look and follows Ginny and Zabini out in the street. As soon as they turn at the corner, Harry smacks Ginny on the head.

“Are you crazy? You scared the shit out of me!”

Ginny bursts out laughing. “You should have seen your face!”

Zabini draws her closer and kisses her forehead, smirking. “You’re a masterpiece.”

“Poor Roger,” Harry sighs. Ginny rolls her eyes and kicks him in the knee and Harry stumbles away. “What was that for?” he says indignantly.

“Poor Roger,” she parrots. “Don’t think I didn’t catch that look you gave him!”

“I have to go,” Zabini deadpans in a deep voice, and, really, is that supposed to sound like Harry?

“All right, maybe I shouldn’t have gone that far,” Harry concedes, failing to find a flattering justification for his little stunt.  “But thanks for rescuing me, anyway.”

Ginny smiles. “You know I’m always a Patronus away,” she says, and Harry thanks Merlin for magic and loo breaks. “And Blaise likes roleplay.”

Harry winces. “I could have lived without that particular information.”

*

When Parkinson and Zabini don’t show up on Saturday night and Ginny suggests that they should all go dancing, Harry knows something is amiss. Still, a few hours later, he ends up in front of a Muggle club in London with Ginny and Parvati. They order their drinks and settle at a table close to the dancefloor.

Ginny looks wild with her fiery red hair flowing around her, her kohled eyes alight with mischief, and, if Harry’s honest, she's stunning with that crop-top and leather jacket. Harry feels underdressed in his plaid shirt and casual jeans, but he’s never been one to care much about his appearance. At least Parvati makes him feel a bit less self-conscious with her sensible high-waist skirt and colourful tank top.

“Cheers!” Ginny downs a shot, and then another. Parvati soon leaves to dance, and Harry doesn’t think she’ll come back to the flat tonight. Ginny orders another drink. She looks agitated and smiles too much.

“Gin, what’s going on? This isn’t like you.”

She sneers at him, but Harry doesn’t look away. She sighs. “I’m only human, Harry. I, too, get scared and jealous sometimes.”

“Jealous?”

Ginny gives him a small smile. “It’s Nott. I don’t like Blaise spending time with him.”

It takes a minute for Harry to remember that Theodore Nott came back to London with Malfoy. Parkinson and Zabini’s absence makes so much more sense now. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you jealous exactly?”

“They used to be a thing.” Ginny pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration. It’s obvious she hates feeling like this. “For three years or so.” She runs a finger over the rim of her glass, her face turned soft. “Blaise loved him. I can see it in his eyes when he talks about him.”

Harry smiles awkwardly. “I’m going to say something, and I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t hex me.” Ginny narrows her eyes at him but nods curtly. “You’re aware that you’re having this conversation with me, of all people? I mean, how isn’t it the same?”

“Because you’re like a brother I’ve had sex with,” Ginny says, then scowls at her drink. “That sounded better in my head.”

“Why are we here, Gin?” Harry says, looking doubtfully around him. “We could be talking this out with some Chinese at Grimmauld.” She looks up at him sheepishly and Harry’s eyes widen in horror. “You didn’t. Please, tell me you didn’t.”

She gives him an embarrassed smile. “I’m really sorry?”

Harry stands up, a sense of dread and urgency overcoming him. “I need to go.”

But as he turns to cross the floor, his eyes fall on a group of four people celebrating loudly. His first thought is that Parkinson’s taste in clothing hasn’t improved since Hogwarts, what with that bright pink latex dress and the three-inches glittery platform heels she’s sporting. The difference is that it doesn’t stop her from looking ravishing. It’s also the first time he sees Zabini in a Muggle attire, and the sheer casualness of his racerback and skinny jeans shocks Harry a little, as Zabini is the most smartly dressed bloke he knows. He’s leaning towards a man with a dark blue flower-patterned shirt and blazer, his short brown hair longer on the front and swept aside to clear his face. Harry thinks this must be Theodore Nott, and their closeness is obvious as they bend their heads together, sharing knowing smiles.

And then there’s Malfoy. He wears a dark green turtle-neck and straight-cut formal trousers with shining Cole Haans. He’s smiling into his firewhiskey, swirling his glass appreciatively. Parkinson says something funny and he laughs, running a hand through his hair, a few strands loosening from his high bun. He turns his head and, as he catches sight of Harry, his features twist into a disgusted sneer.

Harry sighs. “Fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Leaving France is the worst thing Draco has ever done. And he had once let loose a pack of blood-thirsty Death Eaters into a school full of children. There was also that dreadful business with gigglewater and an Abraxan when he and Theo gave a lecture at Beauxbâtons, but Draco would rather not dwell on that.

He left England three years after the war, immediately after his community service was over. Three years of being confined to the Manor whenever he wasn’t attending his rehabilitation courses at the Ministry or rebuilding Hogwarts as part of his sentence. Despite the house arrest, it hadn’t been lonely. Though his housemates weren’t tried — just Greg and him, really — most of them, as associates of known Death Eaters, had to take the rehabilitation course as well. A lot of people volunteered to help rebuild Hogwarts, and most detentions were spent doing so as well, so Draco didn’t lack company as he served either part of his sentence.

And if watching people being tortured and then fed to a giant sentient snake hadn’t cured Draco of his prejudice against Muggles, having to live among them without a wand most certainly did.

It was decided that, for the rehabilitation course, learning about Muggle culture and history wasn’t enough. The outcome was promising, as most of the participants now understood that Muggles weren’t that different from wizards — though it had been a shock to discover that they were more advanced and civilised in some fields. Still, the Official Vanguard Executive Rehabilitation Committee Overseeing Muggle Education firmly believed that the program had to take things a step further.

That summer of 2000, the OVERCOME participants were sent to London for an immersive stay. Most of them were wary, but Draco had looked forward to it.  For the first time in one year, seven months and three weeks, he would be able to leave the Manor for more than a few hours. During those three months in Camden, struggling with the very concept of housework and electricity, deprived of his wand and confused by a strange currency, stuck with people he thought he knew, Draco realised he hadn’t known the true meaning of friendship before OVERCOME.

He could almost pinpoint the moment when he, Pansy, Blaise and Theo really became friends. They were out in Camden, two weeks into their stay. They’d spent the day eating horrendous junk food, gallivanting from shop to shop and spending too much money — which they deeply regretted the next week when they had to eat Pot noodles for three days in a row. That night, they went out in a Muggle club, convinced that they could handle the crowd and party ‘like the Muggles do’.

They couldn’t have been more wrong. After half an hour, they were out in the street, Pansy vomiting on the pavement while Theo hyperventilated and Draco had a full-on panic attack. Blaise didn’t say a word for the next two hours. They walked home and ended up on the pavement in front of their house, the four of them huddled close. Blaise pulled out the cigarettes he’d bought earlier, and they all shared a fag in complete silence. Then, Pansy had started to laugh. A tragic, ridiculous laugh. They’d looked at other, confused, and then they were laughing their arses off at three in the morning on a fucking pavement.

After that, they took things at a slower pace and, two months in, they did manage to go clubbing. They’d met some nice blokes earlier that week who, after a quick once over at their little group, had advised them to go to Vauxhall. Obviously, it had been quite a shock when four pureblood youths who, until recently, knew nothing but traditions and proper behaviour ended up in a gay club. Fifteen minutes in, some bloke had his tongue down Draco’s throat and there was a serious identity crisis the following morning. It opened a new path for the whole lot of them, and by the end of their stay, Theo and Blaise were seeing each other and both Pansy and Draco had sworn themselves off the opposite sex.

Coming back to wizarding London after that was like flying into a wall head first. Draco knew then that he could never make a life for himself in England. People despised him, they didn’t care that he’d made penance, they didn’t care that he wasn’t the person he used to be. And he wouldn’t be given a chance to prove them wrong. So, he dutifully completed the last year of his sentence, taking comfort in his friends and in his plans for a better future.

Three days after finally earning his freedom, Draco took an international portkey to France and moved into a nice flat in the eleventh arrondissement in Paris. Despite the fines the Malfoys had to pay as war reparations, Draco was still independently wealthy. He’d been so busy dreaming about freedom (and, perhaps, French boys) that he completely forgot about what he’d like to do with his life. Draco wanted more than a life of leisure—it wasn’t who he was anymore. Potions seemed to be the obvious choice, but he gave up after three weeks when he had to use two charms and a full bottle of Muggle shampoo to get rid of the grease in his hair. He tried to write for  _La Gazette du Sorcier_ , the French wizarding newspaper, and it was fun for a while, but Draco got bored. He even tried to manage a vineyard, but it soon became clear that he was better at drinking wine than he was at making it.

It was Pansy who put him on the right path, a few months after Theo had moved in, right after his break-up with Blaise. Pansy and Blaise were visiting, and she was complaining about how little she’d heard from them both. Owls didn’t do international couriers, Muggle post was too much of a hassle, and the Floo only did so much, what with the international connection being so unstable. So, for the next few months, Draco worked on a spell to improve international communication. Based on the Patronus charm and the spell to withdraw a memory for a Pensieve, Avismens sends little mind-birds that carry a recorded message, including images and sounds. Unlike the Patronus, the Avismens charm is easy to master as it doesn’t require anything but concentration and has a definite shape, and it gives more privacy, since the birds are only visible to the recipient of the message. Draco didn’t think much of it, but his friends urged him to persevere. He caved, and five years later, he’s being commissioned by the British Ministry of Magic to open and run a spell lab.

Coming back to the UK ten years after the war isn’t so bad, especially since the Malfoys have virtually disappeared from the wizarding social life. It’s nice to be home, to have Sunday brunches with Pansy and Blaise like there’s no trouble in the world. Draco even thinks he could have loved this job, if it wasn’t for the very bane of his existence, Harry fucking Potter.

And isn’t Blaise fucking smug about the whole thing.

*

“Theo,” Draco moans, hopelessly shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

Theo’s head appears at the door. He has bags under his eyes and doesn’t look very amenable. “What do you want, Goldilocks?”

“I hate it when you call me that,” Draco grumbles, hiding his face under a fluffy pillow, discreetly ruffling his slightly curling hair self-consciously. “I should hex your eyebrows off,” he adds bravely despite the pounding in his head and Theo being his only chance for salvation.

“No eyebrows, no hangover potion,” Theo replies mid-yawn as he flops down next to Draco, elbowing him unceremoniously for him to scoot over. “I’m sure Potter would be delighted to write you up for casting precarious, untested spells while intoxicated, though.”

“You’re a genuinely bad person, Theo Nott, you know that?” Draco grouses, voice muffled by his pillow.

Theo shrugs. “I guess it depends on whom you ask.” With a swish of his wand, Theo summons a vial of potion and two steaming mugs of coffee. He nudges Draco who grudgingly leaves the protective cocoon of his sheets. “So?” Theo says expectantly, lips quirked up at the corner.

Draco inhales deeply the warm, bittersweet smell of coffee and sighs contentedly. “Maybe you’re not so bad,” he says, and Theo laughs.

*

Draco walks briskly through the hallways of the Ministry, a frown settled between his brows. When he arrives in front of the door, he takes a minute to gather himself. He checks his high collar, smooths down the front of his robes, rolls his shoulders and takes a deep, calming breath. He can do this, he tells himself as he knocks smartly on the wooden door.

The door opens to reveal Potter. “What do you want?” he barks, eyes narrowed. His right cheekbone is still bluish and there’s a nasty cut under the eyebrow. Draco struggles not to roll his eyes at how dramatic he’s being. A quick Episkey and it would have been dealt with.

“Apologize, I guess,” Draco says, his face expressionless. Blaise made him do it — “I won’t have this lab shut down because of your foolishness and I will drag your arse to his office if I have to!” — but he is not going to beg.

Potter snorts. “That sounds like a really convincing apology.”

“Good,” Draco deadpans. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

He turns to leave but Potter, the oaf, grabs his arm. Draco jerks away like he’s just been burnt. “Don’t you know it’s rude to grab people?” he snaps, sending Potter his best sneer. “I thought you were raised by Muggles, not in a  _barn._ ”

“I’m not the one who goes around punching people in the face!” Potter cries, and this time Draco does roll his eyes.

“Don’t be crude, Potter.” He spits the name, and it feels good, like coming home somehow. Draco doesn’t let the thought linger. “You deserved it.”

 “How?” he says, voice pitched too high. “I didn’t say anything to you!”

Draco crosses his arms over his chest sullenly. “Well, you looked at me funny.”

Potter gapes at him and shakes his head. “You fucking strolled your way across the floor and punched me with no warning!”

He’s not going to win this argument, is he? “I don’t stroll.”

“That’s what you’re objecting to?” Potter runs a hand across his face. “This is why I tried to avoid you ever since you came back. I knew you’d be the same blockhead you were back in school, I just knew it! I don’t know what Parkinson was thinking, trying to tell me you changed. She obviously doesn’t know shit about—”

Draco steps closer, crowding Potter’s space. “Don’t talk about Pansy.”

Potter gives an irritated sigh. “I didn’t say anything bad, you prat. She’s my friend!” He smiles nastily. “Fuck, I probably know her better than you do, with you being gone for so long.”

Draco throws his fist into Potter’s other cheek.

*

“Are you trying to ruin me?” Blaise asks, casting one Episkey after the other on Draco’s bruised skin. “I’m a nice bloke,” he says. “I’ve been a good friend. Sometimes, I even buy you that French wine you like.” He shakes his head. “So, I must ask, Draco. Why do you wish me ill?”

“It’s not my fault, he was  _taunting_  me,” he mumbles. Theo snorts behind them, and Draco glowers at him. “Don’t you start. You hate him as much as I do.” Theo shrugs and goes back to his arithmancy calculations. Draco turns his icy glare on Blaise. “You and Pansy are to blame for this. Fraternising with the enemy!”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Blaise sighs. “Making friends with the Saviour of the Wizarding world is hardly fraternising with the enemy. Doing a Dark Lord’s bidding, though?”

Draco squints at him. “That’s low.”

“You started it.”

The door bursts open, letting in a murderous-looking Pansy. She zeroes on Draco, slaps him on the nape of his neck, scowls at him and leaves without a word.

“What the fuck is wrong with you all?” Draco bellows as Theo and Blaise dissolve into laughter.

*

Draco waits patiently as Pansy refuses to answer her door. He hates it when she does this, but it’s still better than having her curse him. Eventually, she opens the door and invites him in.

“I come bearing gifts,” he says, holding out a bottle of elf-made wine and a box of macaroons he’s brought with him from France for situations like this.

Pansy looks at him dubiously, but she takes the box. “What else?” she asks briskly.

Draco sighs. “I apologize for punching your partner. I’ll try not to do it again.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ll do my best not to do it?” She growls lightly and Draco raises his hands up. “Fine, fine, I won’t do it again.” She smiles smugly and leads him into her living room. “Witch,” Draco mutters and Pansy pretends not to hear it. But she does. She always does. That woman has ultrasonic hearing, Draco thinks.

“It’s nice that you decided to make peace,” she says. “Will you apologize to Potter?”

He sighs. “I will if he does.”

She stops and snaps her head towards him. “Funny you should say that, Potter was telling me the same thing earlier!”

Draco pales. “Earlier?”

Pansy claps her hands together with a nefarious smile. “And what a coincidence to have you both here at the same time!”

Merlin, but Draco hates his friends. He considers making a run for it, but he knows Pansy’s retaliation won’t be worth it. He takes a deep breath and steps into the living room where, of course, Potter is sunk into a red armchair, looking sullenly at Pansy. At least they have something in common.

“Potter, I formally apologize for hitting you. The fact that your face is revolting isn’t reason enough to punch it,” Draco says as he sits down in the furthest chair from Potter, who looks about this close to jumping up and maiming him. But Pansy stares Potter down, and Draco can see him capitulate. He’s been there too, but it’s oddly satisfying to see Harry Potter yield to a five-feet-two woman.

“And I apologize for responding to your provocation, I should have been the better man — which shouldn’t be that hard considering…well, that the other man is  _you_.”

That’s when something strange happens. As they stare at each other in mutual loathing, they find themselves grinning. It’s a small thing, born out of scorn and some sort of smugness for going around Pansy’s orders.

But still, it’s there, and Draco feels oddly pleased about the whole thing.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry gets in the queue for his morning coffee and grimaces despite himself when he realises that Malfoy, looking all prissy, is just in front of him. Harry’s head is still hurting a bit after last night. He, Ron and Hermione went home at four in the morning, and he’s out of hangover potion. He’s not in the mood for any of Malfoy’s malfoying today.

“Hello,” Harry says politely.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him. “Hello,” he replies stiffly.

They wait in silence, avoiding each other's gaze. When Malfoy takes his coffee, he nods at Harry and leaves without even a sneer or a smart comeback. As Harry burns his tongue on the first sip, he thinks that maybe this whole business of supervising Malfoy’s experiments — whatever they are — might not be so bad… Once he knows the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit’s purpose.

*

Harry has always fancied himself a good investigator. He spent the last week roaming Level 9, looking for clues, tailing Malfoy in the hope of grasping a piece of information that might shed light on the strange things happening in the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit. For the past month, every time he thought he was onto something, Malfoy would launch another disaster that had nothing to do with the last, and Harry would be back at square one.

This week, he tells himself, he’s going to find something tangible. He’s going to make a case about Malfoy being a danger to both the Muggle and wizarding public, and then he can go back to his life of ridiculous accidents and snarky partners, a life free of pale blond hair and smirks flashing unusually white teeth. Not that Harry notices Malfoy’s teeth.

Once he reaches Level 9, Harry starts with the break room. Spying in the Department of Mysteries is obviously not easy, since more than half of the rooms are not open to the public and he could be sacked for breach of secrecy. But he thinks he’s growing on that little blond witch that works in the Love Room, and she’s as appalled as he is by Malfoy’s shenanigans. He turns the door knob and suddenly, a booming voice reverberates in the hallway.

“GET OUT OF MY DEPARTMENT, POTTY!”

Harry goes pale as people turn to scowl at him. He smiles awkwardly at them. Someone moves past him and into the break room, and Harry follows through with a relieved sigh. He chats a bit with the blond witch who smiles at him, and, since he didn’t get his morning coffee yet, he opens a cupboard to grab a mug.

This knob shrieks even louder, and this time, it fucking bites him.

*

“Come in,” Harry says distractedly, shaking his sore hand. Every piece of furniture in the break room had turned on him once the cupboard had sounded the alarm.

“Potter.”

Harry’s head jerks up, and if it isn’t the bane of his existence standing right there in front of him, looking strangely subdued. “What do you want?” Harry groans, unwilling to fake politeness when his fingers have bite marks from a  _cupboard_.

“I’m here to apologize,” Malfoy drawls, and Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “Properly, this time,” he amends.

Harry leans back in his chair. “I’m listening.” Malfoy searches his pocket and pulls out a little box. He enlarges it and puts it on Harry’s desk with an expectant look. “What is it?” Harry asks, looking dubiously at the offending box.

“Open it.”

Harry frowns. “I’m not opening it.”

Malfoy crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t you know it’s rude to refuse a gift?”

Harry snickers and rolls his eyes. “You don’t exactly have a great track record when it comes to gift-giving, do you, though?”

He huffs. “Sure, let’s pretend ten years haven’t passed since then. Am I to treat you like a brooding child, then?”

“Fine,” Harry says, because he doesn’t want to be the childish one. He pokes at the box warily and uses his wand to unwrap it. Inside, there’s a pleasant, serviceable mug with an ‘I’m sorry for what I said before coffee’ inscription. “That’s… nice,” Harry says, confused.

“Of course, it is.” Malfoy clears his throat. “And it’s self-repairing. Since you’ve been hovering in our break room, I know you tend to be clumsy and break mugs.”

Harry looks up to find Malfoy avoiding his gaze, a slight flush coming up his neck. “Thank you,” Harry says, oddly touched by the gesture. “I like it.”

“Well, good,” Malfoy snaps. “And stop spying on Level 9—you’re terrible at it,” he adds as he storms out the door.

Harry chuckles and looks at his mug almost fondly. “Well, seems like Malfoy has changed, after all.”

That’s when the mug starts to bellow the chorus of “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

Harry grimaces. “Maybe not.”

*

“Mr. Potter, there was an explosion on Level 4,” says Hortense, the Department’s internal liaison.

“Level 4?” Harry scowls. “Why do the CMC need us?” He hasn’t heard of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures needing the help of the DMAC like, ever.

Hortense looks uncomfortable. “It’s Draco Malfoy, sir.”

“WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?” the mug barks, and Harry sighs.

“Why is this my life?” he asks Hortense, staring at the offending, still howling mug.

*

“But, Gemma—”

“I don’t know, Harry. I already told you this.” Gemma scowls. “Multiple times.”

Harry scratches the back of his head. It’s been itchy ever since Malfoy failed to tame a flock of vermin, or whatever he was trying to do. What Harry does know is that he had to chase a horde of swarming insects from Level 9 to the Atrium. “I just think that I might do a better job preventing the next plague he’s going to unleash upon us if I knew what he’s doing down there!”

“You’re not supposed to prevent anything,” she sighs, sinking into her leather armchair. “You’re the cleaning-up party, Harry. If you wanted to do pre-emptive work, you should have stayed with the Aurors.”

Harry straightens his posture and narrows his eyes at her. “That’s low, Gemma. You know I love working at the DMAC.”

She relaxes a bit and sighs tiredly. “Look, I know you don’t like this assignment, but if anything goes wrong—”

Harry scoffs and starts enumerating Malfoy’s mishaps. “A bubble tsunami, murderous memos…”

“If anything goes  _really_ wrong—”

“...Flooded Level 9 twice last week and—"

Gemma slams her fist on her desk. “Potter, shut up!”

Harry feels oddly chastised and swallows any protestation he might have had. “Sorry.”

“If something notable were to happen, we’d need our best agent,  _because_  it’s in the Ministry. Most of our work has to do with the Muggles, but a great magical catastrophe in our midst might have bigger repercussions than you think.”

Harry sighs and nods. “Understood.”

* 

Hortense slips her head into the room. “Sir—”

“No,” Harry says, refusing to look up from his paperwork.

“But, sir…”

Harry shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to know. Find someone else to deal with it.”

“But—”

Harry moans in despair. “Please. Just one day. One day.”

Hortense shakes her head, and Harry doesn’t know if she pities him or judges him. “There’s no one else.”

“Fine,” he sighs.

*

Harry bursts into Padma’s office, his hair and robes still a bit wet after yet another flood in the Department of Mysteries, and flops down on her sofa. “I was wrong. So wrong.”

She sighs and puts down her quill. “About what?”

“I fooled myself into thinking that I could deal with him, be polite and all. But it’s impossible.  _He’s_  impossible.” Harry looks frantic, he knows, but he’s past caring at this point. People from Level 9 have started to come directly to his office to report Malfoy’s experiments. Only this morning, he spent half an hour comforting a wizard whose robes self-combusted when he passed by the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit’s office. And then, of course, there was the flood.

“Are we not saying his name, now?” Padma drawls, looking unconcerned.

Harry sighs. “He gave me a mug, and it sings — well  _barks_ , really — and I  _hate_ it, and his name is the trigger… Fuck, I’m so tired, Padma.”

She stares him down. “Break it, then.”

Harry puts his face into his hands with a frustrated moan. “It’s self-repairing.”

He doesn’t have to look up to know that Padma’s smirking. “Why don’t you… ‘misplace’ it, then?”

Harry groans. “I tried! I don’t know how, but it’s always back on my desk the next morning!”

“I’m trying very hard to feel sorry for you,” she says. “But it’s way too funny.”

“You are a terrible friend,” Harry grumbles.

She smiles. “Maybe, but I’m buying you lunch. And bring that mug, would you? I’m curious.”

*

“Hello, sir, there’s been an explosion up in level 2. Mr. Weasley sent for you. It’s about…” She turns wary eyes on the ominous mug where it taunts them, on the highest shelf by the door. “You know.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says in what he hopes is a professional voice.

Once the door is closed, Harry bangs his head repeatedly on the desk.

*

“And then, Creevey launched himself at that Muggle lady who was shrieking like crazy and attracting attention! He literally  _slammed_  into her!” Parkinson says in a delighted voice. “I should make a Pensieve memory out of it for my old age.”

Harry picks at his food, trying his best not to be jealous of his partners. They’re all eating jewelled rice out of Tupperware in Harry’s office, and it feels good to share a moment with them. He doesn’t want to ruin it because he’s starting to hate his job and the idea of an Occamy let loose on the London Bridge is starting to sound like a dream.

“Fuck, Parkinson. This is so good,” Harry mumbles between two forkfuls of rice, savouring the taste of candied orange peel, almonds, pistachios, carrots, chicken and saffron mixing together.

Parkinson preens at the praise. She’s a bit closed off when it comes her Iranian origins — mother issues, apparently — but she’s insanely proud of her country’s cooking. She and Padma often bring containers of homemade food, and though Harry favours Indian cuisine a little because of his father’s desi origins, he’s not about to complain about the delicious Persian food Parkinson brings. Especially since he can’t be bothered to cook anything that isn’t classic, mundane English food.

“Don’t you miss me a little?” Harry asks anyway after another tale of Dennis Creevey’s prowess.

Padma laughs. “Oh, Harry, don’t worry,” she says, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re still our favourite side-kick.”

Parkinson shrugs, but she roughly hands him a closed container of leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch, and Harry knows she misses him too.

“Do you know when you’ll be able to go back to the field?”

“Well, it all depends of Malfoy, really.” The mug starts to sing happily, and Harry sighs. “Shit, I forgot again.” He looks up to find both of his partners eyeing the antagonizing piece of crockery with delighted looks. “You take way too much pleasure in my pain,” Harry grumbles.

Once the mug goes silent, Parkinson draws closer, fucking stars in her eyes. “Malfoy,” she whispers and the exceedingly familiar chorus starts again. “Bloody amazing,” she marvels and Harry hates her just a little.

*

“Sir.”

Silence.

“Sir, please open the door.” Hortense starts rocking the door knob forcefully. “Mr. Potter, I know you’re in there. Open the door.”

“No!”

“Sir—”

“I said no!”, he cries desperately. “You can’t make me!” He’s a bit ashamed of how childish he sounds, if he’s honest, but he’s so fucking tired and can’t he just have a break from anything Malfoy for once?

But Hortense doesn’t seem to think so, and blows the door open. “Mr. Harry Potter, sir, if you don’t get your arse out there right now, I will hex you so bad that Mr. Malfoy will sound like a dream come true. Am I clear?”

As the mug starts its infuriating chorus, Harry doubts that it’s humanely possible, but crawls out from behind his desk anyway. “Yes, fine.” He moves past her and hesitates by the door, frowning. “Please don’t tell Head Farley?”

She narrows his eyes at him. “If you’re good.”

Harry sighs, subdued, and thinks he should consider changing careers.

*

“Parvati,” Hermione asks in a worried voice. “Is Harry all right?”

Harry ponders whether to remind them that he’s  _right there_  and can hear them perfectly, but he would need to open his eyes and use his mouth, and the sofa is extremely comfortable and he’s so tired after spending two hours with a mediwizard from the Spell Damage ward, trying to charm a poor Ministry worker’s skin back to its original colour, and Malfoy was smirking all the time, and what did he want to say again?

“He’s having a bit of a tough time at work,” his flatmate says. “Hasn’t slept for two days, too.” It mustn’t have been important. He should go back to his comfortable dozing. Hermione and Parvati’s voices are soft, warm. It feels nice having them here.

Hermione clears her throat and Harry scrunches his nose. “Oh, I see. It’s Malf—” Instinctively, Harry jumps off the sofa and shoves his hands over Hermione’s face. She looks entirely scandalised. He’s sorry he had to manhandle her like that, but there are things Harry can’t let happen, even in his state of fatigue. “Don’t say the name,” he whispers hoarsely, his right eye twitching a little.

Parvati sighs and shakes her head, pressing her fingers over eyelids. “Apparently, there’s a cursed mug that sings—I don’t know, Padma’s been very vague about it.”

Hermione slowly disentangles herself from Harry, watching him warily like he’s some rabid beast. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t hear that fucking song in her dreams—dreams of floods and laughing, taunting Malfoys with a background chorus supplied by the Baha Men. She opens her mouth and Harry sharply raises his finger. Hermione takes a step back. “Don’t say it”, he mouths and goes back to his sofa, wrapping himself in his blanket.

“Oh, Merlin,” he hears Hermione whisper as he gently dozes off.

*

“Sir,” Hortense says curtly as she hands him a file.

“Which floor?” Harry says in a resigned voice.

“The Atrium, this time.”

“Fine,” he sighs and grabs his wand.

He takes the lift down and pads towards Malfoy and Nott, who are both staring perplexingly at a woman softly crying on a chair. Her hair seems to be made of Devil’s Snare vines.

“Maybe snakes would be better, don’t you think Theo?” Malfoy wonders.

Nott frowns, holding his chin between two slender fingers. “I’m not sure, they might be less tameable.”

“Yes, but they wouldn’t be as sensible to light, would they?” Malfoy pokes at a vine and it makes a grab for his finger. “I like the Devil’s Snare’s spirit though.”

“You like them feisty, don’t you?” Nott teases and Malfoy smiles at him, a warm and open smile that looks utterly misplaced on his face, in Harry’s opinion.

He clears his throat and Malfoy looks up with a frown. “Yes, I do,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “What are you doing here, Potter?”

“Doing my job,” Harry deadpans, ignoring him in favour of the poor woman.

Malfoy chuckles nastily. “Yeah, I’ve been confused about that. We’ve mostly seen you mop the floors lately, right Theo?” He looks expectantly at his friend with a wolfish smile, but Nott only rolls his eyes. “Or what was that already? Oh, now I remember! You were chasing vermin like a mere exterminator. Wasn’t it nice? Must have felt like home. Right, Theo?”

“You’re such a child,” Harry mutters, running a scanning spell on the woman’s hair. Curious spellwork. Nothing Harry’s ever seen before — and he’s seen the uncanniest spells in his time at the DMAC.

“I may be a child, but you’re the one who cleans up my mess. What does that make you, eh?”

Harry sighs. “Honestly, Malf—” He instinctively cuts himself off and immediately regrets it when he catches the smug smile on Malfoy’s face. Harry takes a deep breath. “Honestly, Malfoy, if I was as terrible as my job as you are, I wouldn’t brag about it,” he says curtly and Malfoy’s face falls.

“Draco,” Nott starts, putting a hand on his arm, but Malfoy shoves him off.

“Say what, Potter? You wouldn’t know greatness if it was spitting at your face. Do you think revolutionary inventions come out of nowhere? It’s called trial and error, you twat. I wouldn’t still be here if I was as useless as you think I am. Maybe I’m a fucking asset, and you’re just too low on the food chain to know why,” he snarls and storms out, a blasé Nott trailing after him.

Harry clears his throat and tries not to think about the disapproving look the witch with the vine-hair is sending his way, nor about the fact that Malfoy might actually be right about some of that.


	4. Chapter 4

“Draco, pay attention,” Blaise says sternly. “This is hopefully the first of many hearings, and it needs to go well.” He runs a hand over his face and sighs. “Which spell will you present?”

Draco shares a look with Theo, who nods at him confidently. “We were thinking something small but useful.” He waits for Blaise to motion for him to continue. “We wouldn’t want to scare off the Committee with our more… radical experiments, right?”

They all look at each other in awkward silence. None of them is comfortable with some of the things they do in here, but they know it’s for a greater purpose. At least, Draco hopes so.

“That is an appropriate choice,” Blaise says, voice tense. “Which one did you pick?”

“The Sigiletra,” Theo replies. Blaise raises an eyebrow at him, and Theo shoots him a winning smile. “Personal favourite.”

Blaise leans on the closest wall and jerks his head at them. “I’m guessing it has to do with the murderous memos you two unleashed on your first week?”

Draco chuckles at the memory of Potter’s face as what he thought were ominous missives — it was all obscene drawings, really — attempted to eat his face off. “Yes. The spell casts a protective charm on any kind of message — box, letter, anything — that prevents anyone but the recipient from opening it. The container of the message will attack anyone who tries to hijack it.”

Blaise nods approvingly. “Good one. Simple, not too scary, efficient. Is it working properly?”

Theo snorts. “Of course, it is. Has been for weeks.”

“Don’t pout,” Blaise teases. “I know you’re the best Arithmancer this side of the pond.”

Theo preens and Draco rolls his eyes. These two, really. “So,” he snaps, unwilling to endure more of their flirting. “We’re submitting the Sigiletra. What will it take to convince the Committee?” Blaise’s face falls, and it makes Draco immediately suspicious. “You know something, don’t you?”

“Hermione Granger is the Head of the Committee for Experimental Charms, and, well. She’s not too fond of you, is she?”

“I’m not kissing her arse,” Draco snaps.

“Nobody’s asking you to,” Blaise says calmly, but they both know that’s exactly what he wants.

“She’s banging Pansy, isn’t she? And you’re seeing her Weaselette friend, right? Isn’t that enough?”

“Don’t call her that,” Blaise says distractedly, eyeing Theo from the corner of his eye. Theo is as still as a statue, his features schooled in perfect impassiveness. Blaise frowns slightly and turns back his gaze on Draco. “One meal. A nice dinner. With Pansy. At mine and Ginny’s. Neutral territory.”

“One meal. Fancy restaurant,” Draco says. “And Theo’s coming too.”

Theo’s head snaps up and he flashes a murdering sneer at him. Blaise looks homicidal too. Draco knows he’s going to be yelled at later, but they both need to get over themselves and remember that Blaise isn’t single and the two of them are better apart. And, if he’s honest, he doesn’t think he can face Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger without the full back-up of his three best — and only — friends.

*

“What were you thinking?” Theo asks — barks, really — when Blaise leaves.

Draco stares him down. “I think you’re playing with fire. Maybe you don’t remember what a mess you were when you moved to Paris, but I do.”

Theo and Blaise had a very intense relationship. Not in the sense of having been prone to dramatic fights, but in sheer emotional tension. They decided to end it when it became too much, when being in the same room started to feel like suffocating. But they still cared about each other deeply, and Theo had to put almost three hundred miles between them to give them each a chance to move on.

“I remember,” Theo says in a small voice. “It’s not like that. We’re not like that.” He looks down at his feet. “Not anymore.”

Draco sighs and goes to put a firm hand on Theo’s shoulder. “And that’s a  _good_  thing,” he reminds him. “You couldn’t bear being apart for more than a few hours, you were so fucking co-dependent. It wasn’t healthy.”

Theo vaguely tries to shrug Draco’s hand off, but his heart is not in it. “I know that,” he snaps. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see him with someone else, all right?”

Draco takes his friend's face in his hands, leaning his forehead against Theo’s. “It’s been almost five years, Theo. And Blaise has been seeing Weasley for more than two. The both of you could ignore it when we were still in France, but if you want to stay friends with him —” Draco smiles understandingly, “and I know you do — you have to find your place in his life here.” He takes a step back and forces Theo to look at him in the eye. “And if that means making friends with the Weaselette, then you should.”

Theo gives him a small smile, looking at him from under his lashes. “You should show that side of you more,” he teases.

Draco laughs. “Don’t tell me you like me for my charming personality?”

Theo smirks. “I know—I was surprised too.”

*

Brunch with Pansy on Sunday mornings is a welcome addition to Draco’s daily life. She is busy most of the week with work and Granger, and she and Blaise spend every other Saturday at Potter’s lair. He’s missed her terribly, and he only notices now that he’s back home.

“I saw your mug,” she says as she viciously cuts off a sausage. “Loved it,” she adds emphatically, and slightly dirtily.

Draco smirks in his steaming cup. “Aren’t you supposed to be his friend?”

She snorts. “That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good prank.” She chuckles a bit. “And Potter’s face whenever it sings? It’s absolutely delightful.” Draco struggles not to preen. He is very proud of his little gift. “I wonder though,” she says, sending him a curious look. “How come he hasn’t figured out you’re into him yet?”

Draco chokes on his tea. “What are you on about?” he splutters.

She stares him down. “Draco, dear, I’ve been listening to you ramble about Potter since you were eleven, and then watched you go through a string of black-haired, dark-skinned boys over the past few years.” She eyes wonderingly the twitching sausage perched on her fork. “Potter may be as oblivious as they come…” She sends him a smug, indulgent, look. “But I am not.”

Draco feels his cheek heat up. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She rolls her eyes. “Are we really doing this? For Salazar’s sake, you’re even back to your old tricks, fucking with him in every way you can in a desperate attempt to catch his attention!” Draco looks at her with wide eyes, mouth agape. Pansy puts her hand over her mouth. “Fuck, you didn’t realise it yourself, did you?” She lets out a snort, obviously trying to contain her hilarity. “Oh Merlin, I didn’t think you were in so deep! Ha, this is way too funny.”

“I— I don’t…” Draco frowns at his plate. He looks up at Pansy, confused. “You think I…?” He shakes his head. “No.” He grimaces. “No?”

Pansy presses her lips together, looking sideways. “Well, I guess I’m buying brunch.”

*

As seven o’clock approaches, and with it his impending doom at the hands of Hermione Granger, Draco grows more and more nervous. His little talk with Pansy hadn’t helped, of course, but he refuses to dwell on that. He has more important things to do, like figuring out a way to charm a powerful woman and war hero whom he happens to have bullied through most of his school years. Sure, Blaise and Pansy managed to get on her good side, but they weren’t as nasty as he was. Well, Pansy was, but she grew on Potter first — and how she did that, Draco wants to know — and then seduced Granger. What would his twelve-year-old self say, he wonders. Something rude and bigoted, probably.

He considers putting on his best robes, but maybe he should go for Muggle clothing. Would that be too obvious? He looks down at his bare arm, at the red, ugly scar. “Overcome,” he whispers, running a tentative finger over the runes tattooed over the mark on his inner forearm. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then grabs a black short-sleeved top with a round collar and a pair of jeans. He’s fucked anyway, the least he can do is own it.

A little silvery bird comes across the window. He extends a hand and it melts in his skin as he closes his eyes. Pansy’s face comes to his mind, looking behind her with a frown. “Draco,” she says in a whisper. “I don’t have much time and if Hermione sees me using an unlicensed spell, she’s going to skin me alive; hurry up and join us at that French place,” she says quickly, complementing her message with an image of the restaurant. Draco doesn’t bother answering and Apparates on the spot.

Theo and Pansy are waiting for him in front of the restaurant, sharing a fag. Theo looks green, and Draco feels a bit like a shit for dragging him here, though they all know it’s for the best. Blaise has sent him a flurry of mind-birds over the past few days, growing from utterly annoyed to slightly thankful. He loves his girlfriend and he knows that boundaries must be drawn, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

“Waiting for me?” Draco says with a smirk. “Cute.”

“This is why you don’t have friends,” Pansy sighs.

Theo puts out his cigarette and they all go inside. Blaise, Weasley and Granger are having an animated discussion at their table, and Draco can see that they’re getting along. He tries not to resent their camaraderie, but Draco has always been a possessive sod.

Pansy slides in the chair next to Hermione and kiss her on the cheek, which makes her blush a little, while Theo and Draco stand awkwardly by the table, unsure how to proceed. Blaise and Theo share a look, and Blaise takes charge. He stands up and puts a hand on Theo’s shoulder, looking at his girlfriend. “Gin, Theo,” he says with an easy, albeit slightly tense, smile.

Weasley and Theo try to do the same, but it’s awkward. Draco sees the moment when Theo reaches a decision and shoots her his most charming smile. “Hello, Ginevra. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says — admittedly a bit stiffly, but he’s never been the most outgoing bloke around — as he extends a hand. She shakes it — a little too hard, but she’s never been a very delicate person, has she? — and gestures for him to take Blaise’s chair, so that Theo’s sat between them. And that says more about her willingness to welcome Theo as a friend than the awkward exchange they all just witnessed.

Draco discreetly clears his throat. “Good evening,” he says, his voice a bit shaky. Granger’s eyes snap to his and Draco is struck by the memory of her fist colluding with his face. He desperately wants to make a run for it, but his three friends are watching him with pleading eyes. He knows why Blaise and Theo want him there, but Pansy’s looking as anxious for him to stay as they are, and Draco realises that she deeply cares for Granger and wants them to get along. And that motivates him much more than being a buffer or making their work lives easier.

Fuck, but what he wouldn’t do for his friends.

He takes a step towards Granger and looks at her straight in the eye. “I was a privileged, bigoted and narcissistic child, and I was horrible to you.” Draco frowns. It does sound terrible when said out loud. “I am a different person, now.”

If Pansy looks at him fondly while Blaise rolls his eyes, Granger doesn’t look convinced. “Are you going to just stand there? I’d like to order,” she says and takes up her menu.

Draco shrugs and sits between Pansy and Blaise, as Granger is sat next to Weasley. “You have serious issues,” Blaise whispers in his ear.

“Well, you know what they say,” Draco drawls. “What doesn’t kill you gives you a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms and a sick sense of humour.”

*

“This would be an appropriate time for you to stop being an arse,” Potter tells him, as he stands in front of the door to the lab, a crease firmly settled between his eyebrows.

Draco makes a face. “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”

Potter ambushed him and Theo on their way back after lunch, demanding to know about their experiments as part of his ongoing investigation. Then Draco stopped listening, but there was some bullshit about Potter being the ranked officer and thus the one he was supposed to answer to.

“I won’t have you question my authority!” Potter snaps, after Draco prevents him from bursting into the lab for the third time in a five-minute span.

“I’m not questioning it,” Draco says calmly. “I’m denying its existence.”

“You—” he splutters.

Draco smiles sweetly. “Yes, I.”

Potter just groans, throwing his hands up in frustration before he storms out of the Department.

Theo cocks his head, sceptical. “That went well.”

Draco shrugs.

*

The Committee for Experimental Charms is set in a large room with an imposing desk curved outwards. Granger sits in the middle, with three other wizards on each side. The floor is made of mosaiced tiles, and Draco stands in an ornamented circle in the middle of the room, the seven gazes pinning him down. Besides Granger, who is the head and public face of the Committee, the identities of the Committee members are a well-kept secret. Even now, their faces are hooded or glamoured, and Draco wonders about the exact ties between the Committee and the Unspeakables.

He wishes Theo was by his side, both as his partner and as support, but the administration had been adamant. No matter that Draco’s ideas would stay just that if Theo wasn’t there to do half the work with his Arithmancy calculations! He is the one that compiles the spells’ formulas and wand movements to fit Draco’s vision. Draco closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep, calming breath. No use dwelling on it, now that he’s standing before the Committee.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Granger starts sternly, and she’s the very face of professionalism. Draco thinks he suffered through that dinner for naught, but at least it pleased Pansy and Blaise. “As the nature of this hearing is confidential due to the nature of your work for the Department of Mysteries, there will be no recording of the session. Do you agree?”

“I do,” he says coldly. He doesn’t like to attend unrecorded official meetings, but he doesn't have a choice, does he? 

Granger and the other wizards nod at each other. “Let’s begin, then.”

Draco pulls out his wand. “I come before you today to officially present one of the…,” he clears his throat, feeling awkward, “Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit’s own creations.”

Seriously, who the fuck picks out these names?

Granger writes something on her parchment. “Proceed,” she says, waving her hand at him.

“Sigiletra,” Draco states clearly, pointing his wand at the piece of parchment Granger has before her. The letter wraps itself neatly, emitting a soft glow. “I charmed this parchment so it can only be opened by my intended recipient,” he explains. “In this case, Ms. Granger,” he adds, gesturing towards her. “If someone else tries to open it, the letter will turn against the intruder, and eventually destroy itself if tampered with or if it is undeliverable.” Draco swallows a little. “This charm is meant to secure our communications, without risking the lives of living messengers, be it owls or wizards.”

“It is a very interesting charm, Mr. Malfoy,” Granger says after one of her associates whispers something in her ear. “Was it the one that caused the flock of murderous memos a few months ago?” She’s teasing a little, but her concern is genuine.

“It was,” Draco admits. “That happens when the charm is applied to Howlers. The inherent spellwork and, er, animosity of the letter tampers with the Sigiletra, hence the,” he clears his throat again, “quite aggressive behaviour.”

“I assume that that defect is being worked on?”

“Indeed,” Draco says with an emphatic nod. “Theodore Nott, my partner and Arithmancer for the Disposal Unit, is currently working on a way to delay the hostile behaviour until after the opening, without diminishing the defence protocol.” Draco pulls back a strand of hair behind his ear, cursing inwardly at the bead of sweat trickling down his neck. “We ask for a patent for regular deliveries, which would be completed by an addendum towards deliveries containing inherent spellwork in due time.”

Granger frowns a little and nods, thoughtful. “And your assessment regarding the danger to the wizarding public?”

“The spell isn’t dangerous to others, besides parchment cuts and slight burns due to self-destruction when trying to intercept a missive,” Draco says quickly, nervousness spilling down his spine.

Another whisper. “What about the Statute of Secrecy?”

Draco smiles genuinely. He could answer this. “Unlike Howlers, the Sigiletras are implemented with a fail-safe that triggers a Notice-Me-Not if handled by Unawares.”

“Interesting,” Granger mutters. Then, she frowns, like something just hit her. “Unawares?” she asks, her eyes widened in surprise.

Draco flushes a little. “Er, the OVERCOME program encourages the use of less discriminating terms regarding people who remain unaware of the wizarding world,” he splutters embarrassingly.

“I see,” she says, and Draco thinks that if he blinks and cocks his head a little, maybe he can catch the hint of smile. “Well, we need to discuss this in private, but I think your demand is reasonable.” He’s taken a back when she nods respectfully at him. “This is very fine spellwork, Mr. Malfoy.” She rises from the table, and soon the other wizards follow. “We’ll be in touch,” she says before she leaves the room by a backdoor that immediately disappears after the last wizard.

Still a bit shook by the interview, Draco staggers out of the room through the regular door. Blaise and Theo are waiting, worried. “So?” Blaise asks with anticipation.

“I think it went well,” Draco sighs, feeling exhausted. He smirks at Theo, who’s frowning anxiously at him. “They loved your fail-safe, I think,” he adds, and Theo rewards him with a beaming smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Three weeks have passed, and still not a single explosion in the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit. Not even a complaint, or a distressed wizard bursting into tears in Harry’s office. Nothing but plain parchment work.

Padma and Parkinson are settling just fine with Creevey, roaming the country and defeating ludicrous children’s creations, while Parvati is swamped in work with her new miscellaneous column. Ron has been off in Germany for some undercover work for a week, and Hermione has decreed a moratorium on all things personal while she does ground research on the origins of spell crafting, which makes Parkinson even crankier than usual. Even Zabini and Ginny are busy, taking a short holiday in Italy to meet Zabini’s mother.

So, Harry is left all by his lonesome self in London.

And Merlin, is he bored.

By the end of the first week, Harry has moved his furniture twice all over his office, and discovered a dusty report he forgot to hand in five months ago. It’s filed by the next Tuesday, and when the second Friday comes, Harry has started to purposefully trigger his mug so he can sing along.

By the end of the third week, he even starts to enjoy it.

That’s when he decides that, if Draco Malfoy is determined to make his life miserable by his inexplicable inactivity, it is time to find a new purpose in his life.

 *

“Padma, I made a decision!” Harry says as he slams open the door to Padma’s office.

She sighs, closes the file jacket she was working on, and looks up at her friend with bored, dead eyes. “Yes?”

“I have been too lenient,” he starts, pacing the room. “A bit soft, even.” He turns sharply towards her. “But those days are over.”

Padma rubs her closed eyes. “Oh, Merlin.”

“I have made the mistake of being up front about this,” Harry says with wide eyes and big gestures. “But now, it’s time for some good old-fashioned investigation — maybe even some trailing, stake-outs… Just like Auror training.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Or sixth year, really.”

“And why do I care exactly?” Padma wants to know.

Harry frowns, confused. “Well, you, me and Parkinson, right? We’re a team.”

“We are. And I’ll even say we’re friends — though sometimes I wonder why— but I’m not digging into Unspeakable business without being prompted to—”

“I’m pr—”

“—by the proper hierarchy, Harry.” Padma sighs. “I’ll have lunch with you and even listen to your plans, though,” she says, mellowed by Harry’s put-out look.

Harry beams at her. “Thanks.” The smile fades, replaced by a serious scowl. “I really need to see this through, you know. I can’t just forget about all that shady business going on down in Level 9.”

Padma nods. “I know. What about Pansy? That sounds like it would be right up in her alley.”

Harry snorts. “She burst out laughing when I asked.”

“And then?” Padma asks with a commiserating look.

He shrugs. “And then she threw me out.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Come now, lunch will make it better.”

*

“It would be just like seventh year!”

Ron groans. “Seventh year was  _hell_ , Harry.”

Harry grabs a crisp off the basket on the table, leaning back in his chair at the back of the Leaky Cauldron. “Well, sixth year then.”

“I almost got killed that year! By the ferret, to boot!” Ron cries, shaking his head in dismay.

Harry shrugs. “Well, you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Now, that’s just plain bad faith,” Ron says with a stern look.

“I’m worried about another kind of bad faith, if you catch my drift.”

Ron sighs. “You’re obviously mad, so I’m going to ignore how bad that pun was — and how you just overlooked my near-death experience.”

Harry looks at him straight in the eye. “I died once.”

There’s an awkward silence, and then Ron grunts. “Now, that’s just cheating.”

Harry gives him an even look.

“All right, I won’t judge your weird fascination with albino rodents…” He points a warning finger at his friend. “But I’m not helping you either.” Harry still stares at him, unblinking. Ron throws his hands in the air with a loud groan. “Fine, and I’ll buy you a butterbeer!”

Harry nods appreciatively. “Deal.”

*

“How did it go with Hermione?” Ginny asks, biting eagerly on her sandwich, leaving a trail of raw vegetables on Grimmauld’s dinner table, elbowing Parkinson in the ribs when she tries to pick at her plate of chips.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Well, I think someone talked. Because when I opened my mouth, she was like ‘Harry, no’. I said ‘but’, and she said, ‘I don’t care, get out of my Floo before I hex your face off.’ And I like my face on, so I did what she asked.”

Parkinson sighs dreamily. “I’m such a lucky girl, aren’t I?”

“Well, I’m going to help you, Harry,” Ginny says proudly.

Harry and Parkinson look at each other in astonishment. “You are?” Harry asks cautiously.

Ginny narrows her eyes something fierce. “If you don’t want my help, then—”

“No, no, I want it!” Harry says quickly. “I’m just… Isn’t Zabini going to be pissed or something? I mean, I’m investigating his project.”

Ginny grins smugly. “Why do you think I want to help?” She looks down at her food wistfully. “Also, I’m bored. I hate off-season.”

Parkinson sighs. “Salazar, what did he do?”

She huffs and stabs a chip viciously, still sporting a smile, which now looks awfully ominous. “He’d had a rough week, and me, trying to be thoughtful, decided to set him up for a pleasant lazy evening with a nice meal and some fun afterwards. We were just done, and he joked about how I was  _marriage material_.”

“Oh boy,” Harry gasps, remembering perfectly the seven kinds of hell he suffered the last time he said something like that in Ginny’s presence. He had learned swiftly that sexism wouldn’t be part of this relationship.

Parkinson winces. “Men.”

Harry frowns. “Not—”

“One more word, Harry, I dare you.”

Harry looks at the two women facing him, feeling the sparks in the air, and then down at his plate. “Sorry,” he says, properly chastised, privately thinking that apparently, he still needs a stinging reminder, sometimes.

*

“How did he convince you?” Ginny asks Parvati, before they start Harry’s ‘strategic meeting’.

“Promised to buy me an expensive Muggle-inspired notebook from Amanuensis Quill in Diagon. One with Muggle paper, but with self-refilling sheets.” Ginny raises an eyebrow at her. Parvati shrugs. “I’m easily bought.”

Ginny nods. “I’m here to get back at my boyfriend—I’m not judging.”

“He’s mad over this,” Parvati whispers, staring at her flatmate as he pins notes on a Conjured whiteboard.

Ginny looks at him fondly. “I’ll take obsessive and slightly off his rocker any day. He never let the fame go to his head. Instead he’s still pining over his teenage crush like a thirteen-year-old. I think it’s endearing.”

Parvati smiles warmly. “That he is. Do you think he knows, though?”

“Well, introspection has never been foremost in his skill set, has it?”

*

When Harry arrives at the Ministry that day, he receives a Patronus from Hilde — the blond witch from the Department of Mysteries who hates Malfoy’s experiments with a passion — informing him that Malfoy and Nott are leaving the Ministry for the day, on some sort of secret mission. He Floos Parvati’s office immediately and instructs her to meet him with Ginny on Diagon in thirty minutes. She tries to argue, but Harry doesn’t let her. He knows he’s being a bit desperate about the whole thing, but really, if he doesn’t do anything remotely interesting today, he’s going to lose it. If he hasn’t already.

They meet in front of Amanuensis Quills, since Parvati decided that she should be paid beforehand. After casting a few glamours on their faces, Harry buys her the bloody notebook, muttering about losing his precious lead. But Ginny has put on a tracking spell on Nott, and they easily find them on their way out of the Apothecary. Harry doesn’t dare call her out on it, because, well, considering his own behaviour with Malfoy… Pot, cauldron, and all that.

The apothecary seems to smell the desperation on Harry, because he ends up with a packet of Jobberknoll feathers, two vials of Salamander blood and some disgusting Puffer-fish eyes before the shopkeeper agrees to talk about his business with the “snobbish bloke and his gloomy sidekick”.

“They were tracking something,” he says mysteriously. “There were explosions involved. They wanted to know if something unusual had happened around here.”

“And?” Harry asks, trying to hide his curiosity. “Did it?”

They all share an intense look, and then, the shopkeeper sighs and leans back against the shelves behind him. “No, business has been quite dull, to be honest.”

Harry winces, a bit disappointed. “Do you know where they’re headed next?”

“Fortescue’s, I think. Something about a strange shipment…”

They leave promptly, and move on to the next shop. Each time, Parvati and Harry go in and ask questions while Ginny keeps watch. At Fortescue’s, they learn that Malfoy and Nott are looking for a batch of wild Acid Pops on the run, but Harry is sure that it’s code for something else. His faith wavers though, when they end up stalking the two of them into Sugarplum’s, Wheezes, and then the Tobacconist on Horizont Alley. They go through every sweet shop, tea parlour… Anything remotely involved in candy dealing before Harry finally snaps and calls it a day.

He goes back to work on Tuesday, resigned to spend the next few months in intense boredom, and seriously contemplates the idea of learning Mermish while he’s at it, when Gemma Farley stomps in unceremoniously.

“Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott are off to a seminar at Castelobruxo for the next two weeks, you’re free to resume your activities with your team in the meantime,” she says and hands him a bunch of case files.

“What kind of seminar?” Harry asks, a bit conflicted between his surge of joy at the idea of being able to go back to his work, and a rumbling feeling in the pit of his stomach regarding what Malfoy is up to.

Gemma snorts. “Sweets Talk: Blood Blisterpods Edition, as far as I know.” She shakes her head. “Who in Godric’s name is in charge of the Unspeakables’ cover stories, I wonder.”

*

Ever since the war, Harry has led a full life. Lots of friends, a big loving family, a fulfilling — albeit often ridiculous — career, a great house and an overall relatively easy life, considering, at least after a bit of therapy. So, when Malfoy brings chaos into his life, upsetting the rightful balance of things, Harry is angry.

The only two changes he ever welcomed gladly into his life were the discovery of the wizarding world and the fall of Voldemort. Aside from those, Harry has always been resistant to change. Letting in Parkinson and Zabini into his cluster of friends had been a gradual affair, one strangely helped by the intricate mess of crossed relationships that had spawned from the whole thing. If everyone around him was all right with it, then Harry could be too.

After the war, Harry didn’t want to make decisions, he didn’t want to weigh life-or-death matters. He just wanted to live. And so he did, and at some point, he unconsciously came to rely on the certainty that if his friends were alright with something, he was alright with it too.

Until they started to be alright with Malfoy.

Hermione takes an interest in Malfoy’s work — which Harry still doesn’t know shit about — and he finds that out when he happens on them eating Muggle Chinese food out of the box, laughing over books which are quickly closed and Disillusioned when Harry stomps into the room.

Ginny, Nott and Zabini start hanging out more often than not, and there’s something there Harry thinks, but he doesn’t want to pry. Except he does want to, but he also knows better than to mess with Ginny Weasley and her famous Bat-Bogey hexes.

And then, there’s Parvati’s article in the _Daily Prophet_ about the Acid Pops Tracking Squad, featuring an interview with Malfoy, going on and on about the dangers of hooligan sweets roaming the streets of Wizarding London.

But what tops it all is when Draco fucking Malfoy comes to see him, just before he leaves for his stupid seminar, and thanks him. “It was fun,” he says, shooting him a strangely warm smile, shyly pulling back a strand of pale blond hair behind his ear. “I guess I… I’ll see you?” he says, a faint flush coming over his cheeks as he goes on his way, leaving behind him a very, very confused Harry Potter.

So Harry does the only thing he can do in this situation: he asks Ron out for drinks.

*

“Where is my mojo, Ron? I lost the sacred fire.”

Ron looks at him, frowning, between two mouthfuls of shepherd’s pie. “What are you on about, mate?”

“I think I mellowed. I keep losing my footing when it comes to Malfoy. It’s driving me mad!”

Ron swallows conscientiously. “I don’t think that’s it,” he says carefully.

Harry frowns. “What, then?”

Ron clears his throat awkwardly. “Well, speaking as someone who has witnessed your verbal jousts with Parkinson over the past few years, I can assure you that you still got it.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “But?”

Ron shrugs and sighs. “But you get all weird and flustered when you like someone.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then Harry bursts out laughing. “You had me for a second there, mate!” He chuckles. “Good one. Seriously, though?”

Ron runs a hand over his face. “Fuck, but there’s a long way to go before we’re out of the woods here,” he grumbles. “Harry, remember Cho? Ginny, even? You turn into an awkward mess whenever you fancy someone.” He raises his hands in front of him. “I mean, I don’t judge, look at me—I once almost collapsed after asking a girl out.” He looks perplexed. “Girl who ended up marrying my older brother.” He winces.

“You’re not taking the piss,” Harry says, incredulous. “You actually think I like that royal prat, out of all people?” Ron nods, grimacing. “That’s ridiculous,” Harry snaps, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say. I think you like him, and that you’ve like him for quite a while now,” Ron sighs. “And before you tell me I’m off my rocker, I’ll have you know that we all bloody think so!” he snaps, obviously frustrated.

“So, all my friends are convinced I’m into Draco fucking Malfoy, and only you thought to tell me?”

Ron straightens up in his chair. “Well, I’m your best friend.”

Harry narrows his eyes at him. “And?”

He makes a slightly sorry face and shrugs. “And I lost the bet.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Fuck, but I’m knackered,” Draco groans as he lets himself fall onto Theo’s sofa.

“Why are you always so dramatic?” Theo wonders as he immediately goes to unpack, checking the owlery for missed messages.

Draco turns on his side, grumbling. “We just went through two portkeys, a strange Erumpent-like contraption, and don’t even start me on how many times we climbed those fucking stairs!”

“It’s a Brazilian temple, Draco, of course there are a lot of steps.”

Draco straightens up on the sofa, peeking at Theo from over the backrest. “And we’re _wizards_!”

Theo rolls his eyes. “I, for one, find it charming.”

“You’re bonkers.”

They’d just gotten back from a two-week seminar about “Spell Crafting: Arithmancy and Foreign Languages”. Theo had insisted that it was essential to their work, and Draco had been forced to drag his arse to fucking Castelobruxo in South America. His hair is still wavy and wet from the humidity in the Amazonian Forest, and he doesn’t dare to think of the promotional photographs that were taken during the seminar. He hopes no one here sees them.

When he’s done, Theo checks the owlery once more and then comes to sit beside him. “Are you excited?”

Draco frowns. “What about?”

Theo grins smugly. “We’re going back to the Ministry tomorrow.”

He snorts. “And why should I be looking forward to get back to work?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Theo drawls. “A certain bespectacled ex-Auror and England’s dearest, maybe.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco splutters, feeling his cheeks redden. “I’m not the one who’s completely besotted,” he says, jerking his chin at him.

“Besotted?” Theo protests indignantly.

There’s a faint tap at the window and Theo jumps on the spot. “Send Blaise and the Weaselette my regards,” Draco drawls with a satisfied smirk while Theo hurries towards the window, muttering a string of expletives as he does.

*

“Ah, just the men I was looking for,” Saul Croaker drawls as he comes into the breakroom where Draco is having his morning coffee with Blaise and Theo. Croaker grabs a dry piece of leftover cake, sniffs it warily before he sets it down — wisely, in Draco’s opinion. “The infamous Acid Pops Tracking Squad.”

Blaise goes white at that, and Theo tries to hide his snickers. “Sir,” Blaise starts, his voice tense. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “These ridiculous names have to stop!”

Croaker is an average man. Fifty years or so, a few scars here and there, some wrinkles and hair starting to go grey. But when he looks at Blaise, the glint in his eyes makes him thirty years younger. “How so?” he asks lovingly.

“What’s next, sir? The Liquorice Wand Registry Office?” Blaise says dispassionately.

Croaker’s eyes light up. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Zabini.” Blaise’s face falls. “You always come through, don’t you? To think we owe you the Disposal Unit’s name in the first place…” Draco stares at them, gobsmacked. Blaise looks away, his face scrunched up in an angry frown. “As for you, Malfoy, Nott,” he says a bit more formally, “I’m pleased to tell you that after three successful hearings regarding spell patents, the branch has been deemed efficient enough to benefit from a personal advisor. Hermione Granger will stop by shortly to give you the details. Excellent!” He smiles snidely at Blaise. “We’ll talk later.”

An awkward silence lingers after Croaker’s departure. Blaise is frowning purposefully at his coffee mug, while Theo and Draco exchange knowing looks.

Draco clears his throat. “It’s a good name,” he says, biting his bottom lip in a half-hearted attempt to stop himself from laughing out loud.

Blaise glares at them and storms out.

Theo sighs. “You know that I’m always the one who pays for your little stunts, right?”

Draco grins smugly. “It’s half the fun of it.”

*

“Are you mad? I’m not letting that monstrosity become standard procedure!” Granger snaps at him, aggressively pointing her chopsticks in Draco’s direction.

“Don’t get your wand in a knot, we’re bound to go down that road once in a while,” Draco grumbles, a bit annoyed that his petrification spell will join his taming one in the bin. Apparently, spells that transfigure a person into stone are too dangerous, even for Aurors. He’s less bummed out by the loss of the other one, mainly because he’s not keen on another vermin infestation. That and the similarities to the Imperius curse hit too close to home. “What about Aguapneo?”

Granger frowns over her papers splayed out in front of them, between boxes of take-away Thai food. “It’s the one that caused the floods, right?”

Draco smiles sheepishly. “And the bubble tsunami.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Indeed.”

Theo sit down next to her. “Come on, Granger. This one can be reversed…” She glares at him. “If you’re quick about it,” he amends.

“Take me through it one more time,” she asks stonily.

Theo nods. “The spell casts a bubble around the target’s head and fills it with water while removing the oxygen at the same time. It's basically a bubble-head charm with a reverse Anapneo coupled with an Aguamenti.”

She remains silent for what feels like an eternity, and eventually sighs loudly. “Fine, I’ll take this one to the Committee. But it will be highly policed.”

“I really don’t care as long as it’s patented,” Theo says nonchalantly. “It’s not like either of us would have a personal use for it.”

Granger shakes her head in dismay. “Next?”

“Convexo,” Draco says, still snickering at Theo’s remark. “It’s a shield over a restricted area. The spell is meant to merge the complex interwoven spells of a classic dome shield — a Protego Maxima supported by a Fianto Duris and a Repello Inimicum — into one incantation that can be cast quickly by one wizard.”

Granger looks fairly impressed. “That would save many lives.” She undoubtedly thinks of her friends in the force, Draco thinks, and how their work would be that much easier with it. Her face darkens. “The explosions for the past few months?”

Draco’s face reddens a little. “Fianto Duris is quite a volatile spell.”

It’s Theo’s turn to snicker, and Draco elbows him unceremoniously.

“We’ll see. Maybe the Committee will ask you to tweak it a bit, but I will certainly support that one.”

They share an appraising look and move on. They’re not friends, far from it, but they have a cordial understanding and a good-enough working relationship. That’s enough for Draco.

Theo grabs a bundle of parchments. “We have another complicated spell we’ve been working on, but…”

Granger motions for him to continue, but Theo stays silent. Draco clears his throat and puts his hand over Theo’s arm, taking over. “It’s not dangerous _per se_ ,” Draco starts. “It’s just that it plays with the very laws of time,” he adds casually.

The mischievous grin on Granger’s lips is utterly unexpected. “Fire away,” she tells him. “I might be more… lenient than you’d think regarding that kind of thing,” she says mysteriously and Draco makes a note to pester Pansy about it later.

“It’s called Posco Temporis. It stops time for fifteen seconds, neither the caster nor his surroundings can move, but the caster retains the capacity to think, which allows him to strategise in high-pressure situations. You can see it as quickening time for the caster, or slowing it for others,” Draco says.

“The core formula is inspired from Impedimenta and Aresto Momentum. But it takes a toll on the caster, and it can't be used more than twice in twenty-four hours.” He shrugs. “Only a last resort, really.”

She looks at them both, somewhere between bafflement and respect. “Well, gentlemen,” she starts, “that’s some rad spell!”

Theo and Draco look at each other in dismay while Granger lights up like a Christmas tree. “There is so much we could do with this! Oh, the people down in the Time Room would love this…”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “How do you know about the people there?”

Granger’s eyes widen for a second, but she quickly gathers herself. “What people, Nott?” she says warningly. Theo raises in hands up in surrender, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Moving on,” she concludes mercifully. “Is there anything else?”

Draco scowls. He’d love to see Avismens patented, but he has come to rely on it so much he couldn’t bear to see it relegated to the forbidden list. He and his friends have been playing with fire, benefitting from a legislative vacuum. He glances at Theo, sweat pooling slowly down his neck. Theo looks at him warmly with a confident smile. Draco nods slightly and takes a deep breath.

“There’s one last spell I’d like to talk to you about,” he starts, and Granger gazes at him with an earnest, kind look.

And Draco thinks that maybe trusting her wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

*

For the next few weeks, Draco notices that Potter seems… _subdued_ , somehow. The insults and angry comments have turned into friendly, slightly sassy, banter and, if Draco didn’t know better, something akin to awkward flirting. And since all their friends are so intertwined, the inevitable eventually happens: Potter invites Draco and Theo to one of his Saturday nights at Grimmauld Place. Draco goes through a fairly exhaustive panel of emotions, from dismay to disgust, embarrassment to worry, until he eventually settles on anxious excitement.

When the dreaded night comes, Theo is ready to strangle Draco, or at least to rip off his tongue in hopes of finally shutting him up. “Play nice,” Theo warns before they ring the bell. Draco thinks it’s ridiculous. They should have come by Floo, but, apparently, Weasley had told Theo that Potter would be amenable to doorbell-ringing, and so here they are.

The door opens after a couple of minutes, and Draco has to remember how to breathe when one slightly ruffled Harry Potter waves them in with a beaming smile. Draco feels a bit overdressed, but he’s glad he chose to go Muggle for tonight. He would have rather have spent a bit more time on his hair, but Theo had threatened to cut it off if he didn’t hurry up. Draco had looked at his shoulder-length hair and decided not to risk it.

“Here,” Draco says roughly, pushing a bouquet of white lilies into Harry’s arms.

“He means ‘Thanks for having us’,” Theo says, rolling his eyes.

Potter raises a confused eyebrow but lets them him in without further ado, glancing curiously at Draco’s sulky form. Most of the guests are already here, and when Theo joins Blaise and Weasley, Draco is left to fend for himself.

“Everything all right there, Malfoy?” Potter asks warmly from the kitchen. Draco turns to look at him. He’s still fussing with the flowers.

Draco sighs. “You’re doing it all wrong.” He steps into the kitchen and fixes the bouquet. “Here you go,” he says in an embarrassingly soft voice.

“Thanks,” Potter says, beaming. They remain silent for a while, standing awkwardly on each side of the kitchen island, the flowers sitting between them. “Did you know they were my favourite flowers?” Potter asks quietly.

Draco feels his cheek heat. “Of course not,” he says. “I’ll check on Theo,” he adds quickly. “He doesn’t know how to behave socially, the poor sod.”

Potter’s face quirks into a lovely smile. “Sure,” he says, and Draco is quite certain he’s not buying it.

But hell will freeze over before Draco admits knowing what flowers Harry Potter likes best.


	7. Chapter 7

When the door opens to let in Hortense, Harry closes his folder, shooting her a pleased smile. “Another explosion, then?” he asks.

She frowns, immediately suspicious. “Yes.”

“Well, it’s Monday, right? What would a Monday be without a blast or two on Level 9?” Harry says, almost gleefully.

“Should I call St Mungo’s?” Hortense deadpans, as if the day when Harry Potter loses his marbles has finally come. “Sir,” she adds with a slight flush to her cheeks when she remembers who she’s talking to.

Harry narrows his eyes at her but decides to let it go. “I’ll be back later,” he says and saunters towards the lift, still smiling.

When the doors open to Level 9, Malfoy is leaning on the opposite wall, smirking smugly. “You’ve been quick about it,” Malfoy drawls, looking down at his nails. “Missed me already?”

Harry smiles softly to himself. “Maybe,” he says without thinking and Malfoy’s grin fades to a shocked expression.

“I’m sorry, what?” he splutters, blinking.

Harry frowns as a tepid feeling settling down his spine. What the fuck is he doing? “Err… I heard there was an explosion?” he tries, still a bit confused with himself.

Malfoy sighs in relief. This is safe territory. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says too quickly, rubbing at his neck with a frozen smile.

They are a bit ridiculous, Harry thinks, standing in front of the lift and not looking at each other. “So…are we really doing this?” Harry asks, his voice a bit shaky.

Malfoy scowls. “What?”

Harry shrugs. “That thing where we pretend to hate having to deal with each other, but really enjoy it?” Malfoy’s eyes widen and Harry is almost sure he can spot a flush creeping through the collar of Malfoy’s shirt. Harry takes it as an encouragement and takes a step forward, cocking his head to the side. “Am I misreading this?”

Malfoy swallows and steps away from the wall. “I—” he starts, his eyes unfocused. “I don’t have time to waste on your ridiculous theories, Potter,” he snaps and stomps away. He stops halfway and turns back to look at Harry, shaking his head in dismay, his scowl still firmly settled on his flustered face. “Get back from whence you came!” he calls, making shooing motions before he disappears inside his office.

Harry finds himself grinning like a loon as he comes back to his own office, not even noticing the wary and confused look Hortense shots him as he walks past her.

*

“Come in,” Harry says when he hears a smart knock on the door. “Hello, Gemma,” he adds, rising to shake her hand, beckoning her to sit on the comfy chair opposite his own. “What can I do for you?”

She raises a suspicious eyebrow at him. “Hortense told me you were being weird, but I didn’t believe her.” She shrugs. “I mean, you’re _always_ a bit weird, so I wasn’t worried.”

Harry winces. He never liked being called a freak, even when it’s said affectionately. “Are you quite finished?” he snaps.

She grins at him. “That sounds more like you.” She clears a throat. “I’ve come to tell you the good news in person! The Department of Mysteries has officially rescinded their request for DMAC oversight on the Acid Pops Tracking Squad’s experiments.”

Harry smirks. “They’re really calling it that?”

She shrugs. “Beats me. Anyway, Creevey is being reassigned, and you’re back on regular missions with Patil and Parkinson. It’s all cleared out with their Heads of office.”

Harry feels something warm pool in his stomach, the excitement of going back to his beloved, ludicrous job slowly spreading through his chest. “Not a moment too soon,” he says with a genuine grin.

She beams at him, smiling with all her teeth. “That’s better. And good riddance with that Malfoy bloke, right? Now he’s someone else’s problem,” she adds before she leaves.

Harry leans back in his chair with a satisfied smile. Maybe he’s going to miss the Exploding Bonbons Disposal Unit a little, but in the end, he’s relieved to get back to normal. He’s about to send a memo to Padma and Parkinson, when he realises something is wrong—very, very wrong.

Someone spoke Malfoy name, and Harry’s office is still silent.

*

Harry doesn’t know how much time has passed since he started his frantic search, but what he does know is that his bloody mug is nowhere to be found—not even Accio worked. He doesn’t even notice the pointed knock on his door until Malfoy opens it, looking annoyed.

“If you don’t want to see me, you could at least tell it to my face,” Malfoy snaps, his arms crossed on his chest. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not in.” He huffs haughtily and Harry wants to slap him, just a little. “Or at least, make it believable and lock the door.”

Harry flops down on his chair, running his hands over his face. “I’m not avoiding you, Malfoy,” he sighs. “I just lost something I care about.”

Malfoy seems a bit mellowed at that, and he takes a seat without asking. “What did you lose?”

Harry blushes, regretting telling the git he cared. “Err… It’s the mug you gifted me, actually,” he says eventually. In for a knut, in for a galleon. “For all the times I tried to get rid of it, now that I actually lost that bloody mug, it feels like something is missing.”

Malfoy suddenly turns a bright shade of red as he purposefully looks at his feet.

“What did you want?” Harry asks mercifully.

“I— I actually wanted to ask you—” He clears his throat. “Do you eat?” he asks, looking confused at his own words.

Harry manages to turn his giggle into a good-natured smile. “Yes, Malfoy, I happen to eat, sometimes.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Don’t get smart with me,” he grumbles. He scowls, looking at his hands, which are neatly folded on his lap. “Do you really want the mug back?” he asks.

Harry frowns. “You know where it is?”

Malfoy tries to smile but it just looks wrong. “I may or may not have retrieved it as a peace offering.”

Harry snorts, smiling, as something warm fills him up to his throat. “Did you, now?”

Malfoy looks at the window, face closed, but his reddened cheeks betray his embarrassment. “I thought it would be a nice gesture.”

“It was,” Harry says softly. “But I would like my mug back, yeah?” Malfoy turns to look at him, and Harry gives him his best smile. “It sort of grew on me,” he adds, locking eyes with him.

Malfoy clears his throat. “Did it, now?” he says huskily, an ominous glint in his eyes, his signature smirk making his face right again.

Harry grins. “What was it about lunch?”

****

**EPILOGUE**

Harry sits next to Draco on the sofa in Grimmauld Place’s living room, curling up on his side with a content sigh and purposefully ignoring the annoyed sigh that comes from his chosen cushion. “You forgot the popcorn,” Draco says, taking a sip from the Baha Men mug, idly petting Harry’s hair with his other hand, eyes fixed on the television where an episode of Community plays.

Harry grumbles and straightens up against the backrest to summon the bowl from the kitchen, missing Draco’s head by an inch. But, to Harry’s relief, Draco is completely mesmerised by the show and doesn’t notice. Harry just looks at him, hair slightly ruffled, the inkling of a one-day beard showing on his jaw, one of Harry’s battered jumpers hanging off his shoulders, a pair of dotted leggings on his crossed legs. His silvery grey eyes widen in excitement as he pops snacks into his mouth.

“I love you,” Harry blurts out.

Draco drops the piece of corn back into the bowl and turns to look at him, somewhere between confused bafflement and surprised pleasure. His lips quirk up at the corner, and it doesn’t look that wrong anymore, now that Harry knows all about those soft smiles and crinkling eyes. “Love is such an old-fashioned word,” Draco says, obviously pleased, his cheeks flushed red.

Harry laughs, letting his forehead bump into Draco’s shoulder. “Are you quoting Queen and Bowie, now?” he says, looking at Draco from under his lashes.

“Maybe,” Draco says, trying not to smile as he looks back at the screen, as he brings Harry close to him. Harry shakes his head, enjoying Draco’s warmth. “I could charm you another mug,” Draco adds after a while, giving him a sideways glance that carries much more meaning than words could have. “Since you’ll need another one for when I’m over,” he adds, letting the words hang between them like a promise.

“I would like that,” Harry says, intertwining his fingers with Draco’s own.

 ** _THE END_**  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/134716.html).


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